On Rainy Days
by marinoa
Summary: An English boutique, right in the middle of Paris? There was absolutely nothing that would make Francis Bonnefoy to set his foot in such place. Nothing - exept the rain.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hello people! I'm here to present you another story. It's actually a oneshot that just happens to be in seven chapters, for it somehow expanded rather long. ^_^; Enjoy it anyway!

**On Rainy Days**

Basically, Francis stopped over just because it was raining.

There were numerous little boutiques on the streets of Paris, but when rain caught Francis Bonnefoy on the hop on his way back home from the café he was working at on that particular Saturday afternoon in early August, there was only one in sight – and of all possible names, it proudly announced above the door: _The English Shop_. Francis had noted that particular boutique already some time ago, but his French pride would never allow him to enter it. He couldn't even begin to understand why there was an _English_ shop in the middle of Paris to begin with, but, as it has been said, it was raining, and the Frenchman didn't want to get wet.

A little bell rang above the door as Francis entered the small shop, but there was nobody in sight to note his presence. Slightly relieved by the absence of staff – he had, after all, ended up in the shop unwillingly – Francis decided to have a look around now that he was there, until the rain would decrease enough for him to continue his way.

The boutique was rather small; there were simple shelves of light wood on the three walls of the shop, a wooden desk with cashier taking the fourth one, and two other shelves precisely in the middle of the room, altogether forming three aisles in the shop. There was a doorway to another room, too, but it was behind the cashier and covered with a dark green curtain. The products were arranged accurately on the shelves; those handmade little wooden figures, artistic maps, neat embroidery and small British flags (who the hell would buy a British flag in France, anyway?) clearly had all their places despite the lack of any visible order.

Francis wasn't a great fan of all possible kickknacks, but he had to admit that it gave the boutique kind of an original atmosphere. Actually the boutique was quite charming in all its cosiness, the Frenchman almost guiltily marked. Subconsciously he glanced around to make sure no one was still around, as if fearing to be caught on doing something forbidden, and stepped closer to the nearest shelf. Not daring touch small, wooden toy soldiers on display, he leant forward and inspected them carefully from distance. Yes, they were definitely handmade – every soldier was different from its companions, each of them even having personal, though simple facial expression. The uniforms of the soldiers caught Francis' attention and he gave a small chuckle; it was like time had frozen and put on display the armies of Britain and France from about 16th century – Lilliput style. Almost like from his childhood.

The wooden figures had got the Frenchman to forget himself, hence he didn't hear soft steps behind himself. He saw a wooden globe, size of man's fist, and took it in his hands, eagerly checking how detailed it was. The globe was painted with light colours, obviously by hands, too. It was incredibly precise, and though not perfect, Francis could see that whoever had made it had put his heart into his job. Smiling slightly, Francis admitted that the tiny boutique did have a spirit, if nothing else.

A very _English_ spirit, as he was immediately to notice.

"Sir? How can I help you?"

The voice coming from behind him made Francis jump and he turned around to meet a young blonde man with short but messy hair observing him. Recovering from surprise, Francis' lips curled into a pleasant, customary smile of his, attempting to cover his embarrassment for being taken by surprise like that. "Hm, _excuses-moi, monsieur_?"

For some reason his charming smile was received with thick, risen eyebrows and unimpressed face. "I asked if I could help," the man slowly repeated in clear English with native British accent, looking like he was talking to a simpleton.

"Oh," Francis uttered, feeling being insulted by the other's tone. So this man, apparently closed away in his _English shop_ from the city he was living in, seemed to be arrogant enough to speak English and apparently expected everyone else to do automatically the same –_ in France_. Patriotism immediately rising its head within the Frenchman, he adopted a shallowly polite smile. "Oh, no, I don't think so," he answered in English, making sure to emphasize each word so that uncivilised Englishman would understand, and at the same time gave a ridiculing glance around the shop. "Unless you happen to sell umbrellas here," he added in a tone that clearly didn't expect such luxury from a humble boutique like that.

Irritation flashed in bright, green eyes of the shopkeeper but he, too, didn't slip from false politeness. "Sure, umbrellas are right over there, if you didn't see," he said with hinted mockery, pointing to the cashier and indeed; there stood a box with said items.

"But of course you would have them." Well, Francis knew the game of hinted offending, too. "Since you are coming from that horribly rainy country of yours, _non_?"

Both men glared at one another for a moment or two, then the shopkeeper smirked. "Why, yes," he said all too kindly again and crouched to pick an umbrella. He handed it to the Frenchman with a smug smile. "Naturally this is the only fashion I have." He opened the umbrella to proudly reveal its unmistakable, bright Union Jack illustration.

Had Francis been less good at controlling his composure, his jaw would have dropped. _Oh that arrogant little bastard..._ "Oh well, I'm good. I'll look from somewhere else." On sweetly uttering the words, the Frenchman turned his back to the shopkeeper and swearing to himself to never return, proudly left the damned boutique and its owner.

Into the still pouring rain.

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

**On Rainy Days**

The Thursday morning wasn't so early anymore when two men walked rather aimlessly the streets of Paris. Though it wasn't even noon yet, streets were alive with chatting people, lively cafés and opening stores.

"So how long are you intending to stay in Spain?"

"Enough to introduce Romano to my parents and my homeland. A couple of weeks I guess."

Francis smiled at his Spanish friend. Antonio had finally found true love in his life just half a year ago, and though his chosen one (a hot-tempered Italian) had surprised every one of their friends, the Frenchman was truly happy for his friend.

The two friends chose a small, cosy café to sit and relax at for a while. Francis ordered his usual _café au __lait_ while his Spanish companion went for a fruit smoothie, and they leant back in their chairs, watching people passing by.

"You must be somewhat anxious about presenting your boyfriend to your parents," Francis stated kindly and sipped his coffee. _Perfect_.

Antonio laughed. "That's an understatement!" he exclaimed. "We both know how Romano can be if he starts his day with the wrong foot."

Francis joined the laughter, imagining the raging Italian in his mind.

"But I'm sure my family will see his good side too," the Spaniard continued, "that in reality, he is very cute!"

"He must be nervous, too."

"He sure is! Though he would never admit it."

The two sat in silence for a while, Antonio finishing his drink and Francis observing the sky. It was cloudy, and though the sun peeked from behind the clouds from time to time, there was a chance of showery rain in the air. Francis finished his coffee too, and the two stood up to continue their way.

"What about you, Francis?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you found any interesting people lately?"

Francis shrugged. "Oh, not really."

Antonio smiled (then again, when didn't he?). "You interact with new people every day in your job," he said. "And with that looks of yours, I can't believe there is _no one_."

"Well," Francis admitted with a small grin, "You asked about _interesting_ people. I've had a date or two last week, but seriously, they have not been truly satisfying." Antonio raised his eyebrows meaningfully and the Frenchman added with a wink, "Not in a physical sense,_ mon ami~_"

Antonio patted his shoulder affectionately and offered a comforting smile. "Don't worry Francis. On one wonderful, sunny day you'll find your soul mate too."

"I'm not worrying," Francis debated, mortified. "I quite enjoy my life the way it is." It was true, but Francis didn't deny that finding that significant someone would make his life even more enjoyable.

"Glad to hear that _amigo_."

Francis felt a small drop on his nose and looked up. "Did you feel that, too?"

"Yes, but I don't think it'll break into full rain anytime soon," the Spaniard said. "But it reminds me, I should buy something nice for my parents."

"Oh, not a problem," Francis said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Paris has _everything_."

Since Paris obviously had everything, the two companions were simply looking from wrong places, because whichever shop they entered, Antonio didn't find anything suitable for his parents. Whatever they looked, it was either too flamboyant or too expensive, not really something people like his parents would like or not practical enough.

"Hm," Francis said after two hours of pointless searching, not ready to admit defeat yet.

"Indeed," Antonio agreed. "I though you said Paris had ev- Oh, what's that?"

Francis followed his gaze and seeing what his friend saw, immediately felt a shadow of both irritation and shame. "Oh. That."

"An _English shop_?" Antonio asked and threw a mischievous glance at his friend, knowing his French pride and general loath for the English."I take back my words. If there's an English shop in Paris, then your city truly does have everything."

"Oh, come off it."

"Have you been there?"

Francis cringed. "Once, a couple of weeks ago." But the aftertaste of that visit had left much to be desired. "And only because it was raining."

"Mm. Let's go." Antonio winked. "I have a feeling that I'll find what I'm looking for _there_."

"Oh come on, Antonio... Seriously."

But it appeared Antonio _was_ seriously persistent to visit _The English shop,_ so Francis, quite naturally, had to follow his friend. Well, it had been two weeks since the last visit, so there was a chance that the rude shopkeeper didn't remember him anymore. (Then again, on the other hand, who could forget Francis that easily?) Either way, soon he would know.

The bell on the door rang cheerily as the two men stepped into the boutique. This time Francis spotted the shopkeeper – the same one as before – already on entering. The young man was sitting at the cashier and reading a book, but as soon as the bell rang he reluctantly yanked his eyes from whatever he was reading and lifted his head to greet the customers. "Good afternoon," he said with a small smile, "Is there anything I can do for you?" Francis saw his green eyes move from Antonio upon himself and half amusedly noted how those impressive eyebrows furrowed slightly. Apparently Francis had made an indelible impression on the young shopkeeper during his first visit – though in good or bad, he didn't have to guess. A small scowl crept on the Englishman's face (Francis assumed him to be English) and the Frenchman couldn't help noticing that a smile suited that pale face way better that a sour look.

"Oh, I'm just looking for something to buy for my parents," Antonio said in a friendly way, not noticing the change of mood in the shopkeeper. "They live in Spain, do you think you would have something interesting?"

The green orbs left the Frenchman and returned to the Spaniard. The shopkeeper closed his book and stood up. "Spain, huh? Let's see what I have here."

Francis backed a bit as Antonio stroke up a conversation with the Englishman about Spain and his parents. Feeling a bit uncomfortable with the two, he decided to look around by himself while Antonio was searching for his present and turned to the shelf he had observed the last time. The wooden toy soldiers were still there – but this time positioned slightly differently. Francis frowned a bit; with little imagination it almost... it almost looked like the French soldiers were ominously surrounded by the British ones, in a way that would not have given chances for victory on a real battlefield. Though vaguely annoyed, Francis gave a small chuckle at doings of the shopkeeper. Somehow he was rather amusing.

"Francis! Look!" The voice of his friend brought the Frenchman back on earth and he turned to see the Spaniard gesturing him to come closer. Beside him, the young blond glanced at Francis cautiously and then looked back at the object held by Antonio.

Francis walked over to them. "Have you found something?"

"Yes, look." Antonio showed a case made of dark wood and opened it. "It's perfect for my parents' herb collections."

Francis took the case and inspected it in his hands. "It is rather charming," he said, absently tracking the engravings in the wood with his fingers. "But didn't we see couple of these in other shops, too?"

"Oh, yes, but this is _unique_," Antonio said contentedly and a small, satisfied smile appeared on the shopkeeper's lips for a second. "This is specifically _made_ for herbs, those in other shops were just... boxes."

"I see," Francis said and handed the case back to his friend. "I see your point. You are taking this, then?"

"_Si_," Antonio said happily and headed towards the cashier. The shopkeeper turned after him but halted, as if hesitating for a moment, and then half turned to Francis. "Anything for you?" he asked, raising his eyebrow questionably, slightest hint of a smile on his face, and Francis couldn't tell to save his life if he was honestly asking that question or was it with hidden mockery.

"I'm good," he answered and the shopkeeper turned with a shrug.

When Francis and Antonio walked out of the shop, the Frenchman couldn't stop wondering whether the forest-green eyes of the shopkeeper followed him out or was the feeling merely his imagination.

xXx


	3. Chapter 3

**On Rainy Days**

"Gilbert... Hm, beer... birds... mm, something to do with Prussia..."

It was a Saturday evening, one of those not very special Saturday evenings when you had got your work done and it was time to go home and worry about other things, if worry at all. Francis, unfortunately, had other things to worry about: his other best friend's birthday present. This friend, Gilbert, was German yet ridiculously obsessed with Prussia as well as his younger brother, and he liked very simple things like beer and his little pet bird, but none of those things helped Francis pick the right present. After all, he couldn't get Gilbert birds; he already had one. Nor could he get him a brother for the same (and maybe one more complicated) reason. About Prussia Francis didn't even think, and what came to beer... Well, a Frenchman would never sink as low as buying someone _beer_ for birthday.

Water was pouring hard from the sky, wetting anything that wasn't lucky enough to have a cover. Francis, for once, was one of those lucky ones who did have one: an umbrella of his own. He was walking down the familiar street deep in thought, because most shops were closed already and he still had no present, when an idea came to his mind. An absolutely funny idea, silly no matter how you looked at it. But then again, why not? It had worked with Antonio, too.

So that was why the Frenchman's feet brought him to a particular boutique and made him walk through the door with a small bell on it.

The young shopkeeper of _The English Shop_ was sitting at his cashier again, focused on doing something that Francis couldn't see due to the desk. Apparently he didn't even hear the bell ringing because he reacted to it in no way, and Francis saw no reason to announce his presence; he didn't crave for uneasy atmosphere. Folding his water-dripping umbrella, he, as quietly as possible, started to look around in the shop.

As twice before, the shop was empty from other customers (which was very understandable in Francis' opinion, for part of him still rebelled against setting his foot in an English shop in _Paris_), so the Frenchman could inspect any items without any haste. Funnily, the more he looked at all kinds of wooden figures or carefully drawn pirate-style maps, the more he started to appreciate them. He glanced at the shelf with the familiar toy soldiers – somehow he had grown oddly fond of them – but shook his head; they were not Gilbert-type. But maybe his friend would like a treasure map, or maybe that beautifully carved telescope...

Francis took the telescope carefully in his hands. It was wooden, too, and incredibly skilfully made. It was not one of those huge telescopes, but a smaller one, and though its rather humble size, it was fully engraved. "Someone has an eye for details," Francis muttered to himself, admiring the precisely done work. Even Gilbert would find the telescope 'awesome', as the German liked to express himself.

Light rustling caught the Frenchman's attention and he looked to his left, seeing the shopkeeper approaching him, observing him with unreadable look. For a moment Francis saw himself through the eyes of the shopkeeper – a difficult customer, who had visited the shop twice already yet showed no interest in buying anything – and smiled to himself. Well, this time he _would_ buy something.

The shopkeeper halted within a few steps from the Frenchman, his pose almost defensive with crossed arms and cautious look in the green eyes. "Can I help you with something?" he asked and, raising his eyebrow, continued cynically, "Or did you come in just to hide from the rain again?"

This last question caught Francis off guard and, to his surprise, made him laugh. "This time," he began as the Englishman cracked a smile, too, "I indeed came here quite decidedly – I have to find my friend something original. Most other shops are closed at this time of the evening, you see."

The shopkeeper rolled his eyes. "And so the circumstances forced you on your enemy's territory," he voiced the thoughts in Francis' head, but without ill meaning. Francis gave a heartily chuckle and the Englishman grinned, too. "Well then, have you found anything?"

"Surprisingly yes, I do have," Francis admitted, waving the telescope.

The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows. "I choose to ignore the first word," he said pointedly, but his lips curved into a gentle smile as his eyes fell on the wooden object in the Frenchman's hands.

"Oh... that one. Good choice, though I say so myself."

"Glad to hear we agree on that," Francis mused and followed the shopkeeper to the cashier. He was about to lean against the wooden desk, but then noticed that it was rather occupied by chips and tools. As the Englishman swept them aside to make room for the telescope, the Frenchman noted a piece of wood – a half-finished toy soldier. Surprised, he looked at the shopkeeper.

"You make these yourself?"

The Englishman glanced at him to see what he meant and nodded.

"Everything?"

The shopkeeper shrugged. "Mostly."

Francis looked around the shop. "Wooden figures? Maps? Oh, you even draw them yourself? Mm. Embroidery?"

A nod was followed by another as Francis listed different items he saw, and after the last one he burst into laughter. A light shade of red rose to the Englishman's cheeks and he shot a glare at the Frenchman from under his messy hair. "What?"

Francis shook his head and leaning casually against the desk, flashed the shopkeeper his most charming smile. "Well well well, who would have imagined?"

"Got a problem with it?" the Englishman snapped at him, blushing ever so slightly.

"Oh, _non_ _non_!" Francis chuckled, watching as the cute shopkeeper took a small wooden box to put the telescope in. "I just never thought you actually make the stuff you sell yourself." He picked the half-made soldier in his hand. "Mmm. Is he going to be French or English one?" As soon as the words left his lips, he realised, almost startled, that his voice had gotten a playful tone and gestures a bit _too_ casual – his flirting mode. _Huh?_ Francis looked at the shopkeeper, who was currently filling the box with wood chips to secure the telescope. _Hmm, well, he _is_ quite cute_... But that his flirting mode had kicked in without him doing it on purpose... _that_ was weird – it just didn't happen.

The Englishman raised his eyes from his task and grinned. "Maybe he is going to be neither. Maybe I decided to make a Russian soldier for a change."

Francis laughed. "I don't think so, you wouldn't do that," he uttered in convinced way and placed the soldier before the Englishman. _Oh well – why not?_ "I have a feeling he will be French."

The shopkeeper gaped at the soldier before him with wide eyes and then at the Frenchman, first opening his mouth but then closing it again, as if appalled by the customer's smug behaviour. Quickly he returned to filling the box. "Bloody frog, we'll see about that..."

Francis rolled his eyes at the nickname and followed the other blond finishing his task. The shopkeeper placed the telescope in the box, put the cover on its place and pushed the box to the Frenchman. "Here. That would be fifteen Euros, please."

"Well, I suppose Gilbert is worth the money," Francis muttered, reaching for his wallet and giving a note of twenty Euros. The shopkeeper took it and and offered the change. Francis took the note and before the Englishman had time to pull his hand back, caught it in his own.

"Wh-"

"Francis Bonnefoy," Francis said sweetly, meeting the shopkeeper's eyes and smiling charmingly. "_Pleased_ to meet you."

The Englishman gaped at him with mouth hanging open, probably offended by the behaviour of the Frenchman, Francis though amusedly.

But shocked or not, good manners had deep roots in the Englishman. "Arthur Kirkland," he said with a small smile, trying to release his hand.

Francis, of course, had none of it. "I'm glad to meet you, Arthur," he purred and marked the twitching of the Englishman's eyebrows at being addressed so informally.

"Hm," Arthur said, and finally releasing his hand, Francis grabbed the box with Gilbert's present. "Well then, perhaps we'll meet again."

"Who knows," Arthur said with that small smile of his, slightly tilting his head to the side. There was a playful, challenging even, glimmer in his forest-green eyes, and Francis felt them piercing into his back as he left the boutique.

Once outside and in safe distance from the shop, Francis shook his head. "Oh my," he stated, amused by his own actions. "I might just have found something extremely unique in that boutique."

The English shopkeeper and his lively eyes never left the Frenchman's thoughts that night.

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

**On Rainy Days**

The fourth time Francis went to visit the charming shop(keeper), he chose a rainy day.

The bell above the door gave its usual greeting as Francis pulled the door open and entered the boutique, folding his umbrella. He looked to the cashier to see Arthur, but this time the Englishman wasn't at his usual spot. Before Francis had time to even frown, he heard someone speaking – no one else but his little shopkeeper. The Frenchman looked through the shelves in the middle of the room and true enough, Arthur was having a customer. Francis smiled; so the boutique _was_ visited sometimes by actual customers, too. The woman with whom the Englishman was talking appeared to be French, even, and Francis couldn't help but note her rather poor English. Wondering if the Englishman was actually _able_ to speak French, the Frenchman decided to let him be with his customer and moved to his favourite shelf – the one with toy soldiers.

Remembering his little debate with Arthur about the nationality of the soldier last time he visited the shop few days ago, Francis scanned curiously soldiers on the shelf. Too bad he hadn't counted them last time; now he could not know whether the half-made soldier had turned out to be French or English. Not that one soldier would have managed to turn the tables anyway – majority of the soldiers were still British. Though, the Frenchman dared say, unless the Englishman had made the soldier look exactly the same as an already existing one, the new one maybe even wasn't on the shelf – he wasn't sure, but he didn't see any new faces.

Francis blinked and then grinned. At least _something_ had changed; the French soldiers were no longer surrounded by the British ones. This time the wooden figures stood seemingly without any order, both nationalities mixed together. As if they had been told to cast their weapons aside and greet the others as friends.

The sound of the bell caught Francis' attention and he glanced to his right, to the door; it was just closing after the woman. Suddenly peculiar anticipation in his stomach, Francis straightened and looked to his left.

Arthur was leaning against the shelf a few steps away from the Frenchman with his arms crossed across his chest. His head was tilted to the side and his eyes were narrowed, but there was a small grin on his lips, making him look as if he was torn between feeling amused and suspicious.

"You again? What are you doing in my shop?" he asked, benignly demanding.

"Ah, _oui_," Francis said apologetically, a mischievous blink in his eyes, casually gesturing towards the door. "Just wanted to get out of the rain, you know."

The Englishman's gaze slipped from the Frenchman's face to the folded umbrella he was holding and then back up. There was an unreadable expression on his face, but it soon melted into a careful smile that Francis returned.

"Well, in that case," Arthur said, grinning and turning around to make his way to the cashier, "make yourself at h- I-I mean, you can look freely around."

"Why thank you," Francis responded mischievously, not being able to resist chuckling at the Englishman's slip, which, he found, he would have quite eagerly obeyed. He, however, followed the shopkeeper to his desk.

The desk between them, Arthur sat down on his chair and folded his arms again. "What? Do you need something?"

Francis shrugged, noticing a stool and sitting on it. "No – I'm simply freely looking around."

The Englishman stared at him for a moment and then grabbed a book – by Jane Austen, as Francis caught on the cover. (It hadn't been difficult, for Arthur held the book so that it covered his face.) "Whatever."

But Francis hadn't come to the boutique to be ignored by the Englishman (though if he was very honest, he had no idea of _why_ he had come – there was just _something_ about this shopkeeper). He wanted to talk with him. Glancing towards the shelf with the toy soldiers, he turned to Arthur again, resting his elbow on the desk and chin on his palm.

"You know," he started in a casual, conversational manner. "I keep wondering if you finished that toy soldier from the last time."

Arthur didn't raise his eyes. "I did," he said.

"Oh," Francis responded. "That is good. May I see it?"

"I said you can look around as freely as you wish, didn't I?" the Englishman retorted, eyes still firmly on the book.

Francis shot blindly. "But it was not on the shelf."

Though a blind shot, it hit. "Who do you think you are, bloody frog?" Arthur snapped.

"But you said I may see it, and since it's not-"

"Buzz off, I' reading."

"You are not," Francis said smugly, reaching and tapping the open page with his finger, earning a scandalised look from the Englishman. "You have been staring at the same page for all this time."

Arthur snapped the book closed. "How do you think I can concentrate when you are disturbing me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Shut up, you are not," Arthur said, but not angrily anymore, much to Francis' relief. Putting the book away, the Englishman sighed and looked at the Frenchman. "What comes to that bloody soldier, he didn't turn out what I wanted him to be and I took him home," he said, gesturing at the door behind the desk. Francis raised his eyebrows questionably.

"Home? You live here?" he confirmed, pointing at the said doorway. Arthur shrugged. "Yeah."

"Oh, that's- that's interesting."

It was Arthur's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Have a problem with that? Or did you 'just not think'?" he grinned, referring to their previous conversation when Francis got to know that the shopkeeper made his products himself.

Francis chuckled. "Right, I just did not think," he agreed. "Is it spacey?"

Arthur looked at him in a none-of-your-business manner, but answered nonetheless. "Rather humble, I would say. But it's good to have it right beside the shop."

"Mm," Francis said, his imagination painting a picture of a dusty, stuffed room. "No offence, but why did you even start an _English_ shop in France?"

Arthur answered in a way that got Francis completely off guard: he laughed. The Frenchman stared at him in awe; it was the first time he heard him laughing, and certainly he hadn't expected such an answer to his question.

Arthur shook his head and looked at Francis with a smirk. "So you are asking why an Englishman would leave his homeland in order to move to _France_, the country with the most arrogant people in the whole bloody world, and start there business that carries the name of his nationality? Is that what you are asking?"

Francis' eyebrow rose ever so elegantly. "I would have put the question differently, but, well, basically yes."

Arthur grinned, and his eyes were shining vivid green light. "Good question," he said smugly. "I have no idea."

"No idea?" Francis repeated, not convinced. "So you just... did it." He got a nod in response.

"But you being an Englishman, why to _France_?"

The said Englishman laughed again. "Sometimes I ask myself the very same question."

"But there must be something else behind it then."

A shrug was all he got. "I guess I just wanted to try something... new." One of the rather impressive eyebrows rose teasingly. "What, do you not think of your country highly enough to believe it to be a good place for an Englishman?"

"Don't take me wrong!" the Frenchman exclaimed, laughing. For that one moment that peculiar Englishman and himself seemed to have a perfect understanding for one another, and it felt somehow good. Somehow _right_.

"Mmm," Francis mused on calming down, resting his chin on his palm and observing the Englishman. "You must be full of surprises..."

Arthur blinked and cast a quick glance at the Frenchman, his cheeks getting a new, light shade of pink. "I- what?"

Francis could practically see how the shopkeeper withdrew within his shell, as if just realising he was being a bit too much at ease with the Frenchman. _Apparently 'trying something new' doesn't include involving too closely with strangers,_ he thought, both amused and displeased for visibly going a bit too far – and purposelessly even!

Though, the Englishman was so irresistibly cute, suddenly looking so defensive, like- like a rabbit. The though made Francis smile, his lips almost stretching from ear to ear.

"Er, anyway," Arthur began awkwardly to break the awkward moment, but then he saw Francis' mischievous grin and cut himself off. "What are you gawking at with such a face, frog?" he snapped, all defensive, all fire and flames.

Francis winked at him and chuckled at the Englishman's appalled expression. "Hmm? Nothing, _mon petit lapin_, nothing at all." He then rose from his seat and without even glancing outside, gave a smirk to his shopkeeper. "Well, _monsieur_, as it seems the weather has cleared, I shall be taking my leave now. Until our next meeting!" And with an elegant, gentlemanly bow he left the boutique, a wild, utterly delightful sensation fluttering within him. Even though the rain hadn't ceased at all.

And again, he was followed by the green eyes, vivid and unreadable. Had Francis looked back, he might have seen the owner of those enchanting eyes dropping his head on the desk and burying it in his hands, alternately cradling it and pulling at the short hair. Because, though eager to try something new, not everything that happened could be faced so easily.

xXx


	5. Chapter 5

**On Rainy Days**

After that fourth visit, Francis realised that he was possessed by some kind of odd infatuation. Odd, because while the feeling itself wasn't new for the Frenchman, the effects of it were: never before, despite Francis being rather experienced in the field of love, had his subconsciousness taken a hold of him, not at least without him acknowledging it. But with Arthur, it was different. That time, when Francis had bought Gilbert a gift, his 'flirting mode' had turned on automatically, without him even considering it on such a rude man. And after that. Every time he spoke with Arthur, he realised he was less and less playing the part of a charmer and more and more... not acting anything at all (not to say that he wasn't a charmer naturally, even without acting). With Arthur, Francis quite forgot to focus on giving only the best side of himself – he as well as Arthur certainly did show their little faults, as both were proud men and neither tolerated defeat from the other.

That occurred particularly on the couple of times when Francis would find an excuse to visit the Englishman's little boutique. The fourth time proved not to be the last one, but there was the fifth and the sixth time, too. And every time Francis' excuse had something to do with the rain; either he had forgotten his umbrella (which both knew he hadn't) or the rain was simply too strong and Francis had too long a way home. However, during those couple of visits it occurred to the Frenchman that there just might be actually something stronger than mere infatuation behind it – and that, of all things, was the oddest.

And then, about a month since their first meeting with Arthur, Francis went to _The English Shop_ for the first time _when it was not raining;_ in fact, it was a most beautiful morning and Paris was bathing in the warmth of the golden autumn sun. Indeed, this visit would be remarkable – by going to the boutique without any excuse to step in, like before, Francis was practically admitting that he went there of his own, free will. And that, certainly, was _very_ remarkable, because it was like announcing to the world (or one certain shopkeeper) that he went there because of _Arthur_.

As it appeared, and as Francis had hoped and suspected, the visit was unexpected to Arthur. When Francis opened the door of the boutique and familiar ringing of the small bell welcomed him, Arthur, who was currently arranging one of the shelves, turned to greet a possible customer with a small smile. But as soon as he realised just who it was at the door, an expression of pure amazement took over his features.

"Francis?" he uttered on seeing the Frenchman leaning against the door frame with a smirk, and almost automatically glanced outside. "It's not raining."

"Such wise words you are speaking," Francis said, ever so elegantly raising his eyebrow at the rather self-evident truth. "You are quite right; it's not."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, visibly trying to figure the Frenchman out and decide whether he was mocking him or not. "Then I suppose you've come to hide from the sun today?" he half-asked tentatively, folding his arms across his chest. Francis laughed and approached the Englishman. "_Non_," he said, "No one should hide from the sun. You particularly look as if you haven't seen sunlight for ages."

A frown was formed on the pale face of the short-haired blond.

"I'm saying," Francis continued before the Englishman would retort something, "that it's your turn to visit my place. How about we have a little lunch break at my café?"

Arthur's expression changed so thoroughly that Francis would've laughed, had he not known how it would provoke the Englishman. The green eyes widened as if the Frenchman had suggested going to a nude beach instead of café, and those thin lips parted and closed again, resembling a fish taken out of water. Trying to suffocate his laughter, Francis raised his eyebrow amusedly. "Well?"

"I... can't leave the shop."

"Nonsense! Of course you can, you are the owner. Now, come." From his strategically chosen place, Francis grabbed the Englishman's hand and started to drag him towards the door. "It's a lovely place, you'll see."

"I can bloody well walk myself!" Arthur snapped and yanked his hand out of the Frenchman's grasp. "Sodding frog, let me at least close the shop."

The Frenchman had no objections about it, and he watched as Arthur – frowning and muttering something under his breath – put a _Closed_ -sign on the window and locked the door. On doing this, the Englishman turned to his companion with crossed arms and sceptical look that clearly announced this to be a bad idea. "If I lose any customers because of this, you'll pay."

"_Oui oui_," Francis cooed airily and not in the least convincingly, and led the way to his very own café where he was intent on courting his acquaintance with most delicious delicacies.

That day indeed turned out to be extremely remarkable. Because the two spent not only a lunch break, but the rest of the day together, sharing incredibly enjoyable time. And because at the end of the day, Arthur allowed Francis to walk him home (reluctantly though, and careful not to make it sound like he was being _walked home_). And because at the door of his shop/home Arthur didn't even mention customers that he had possibly lost by spending his day with Francis.

And because Francis realised that, well, he might just be well on his way falling in love.

His first reaction to this realisation was to pick his phone and give a call to Antonio, for the kind Spaniard was always so concerned about his best friends' happiness, but decided against it and considered instead grabbing Arthur and kissing him out of breath. But that wouldn't do, either, because Francis had no idea what thoughts resided behind those green eyes. And even if he had a slightest idea, he was not enough of a gambler to try his luck in such a vulgar manner – no, he would start more subtly. Francis was not going to leave with empty hands.

That was why, when Arthur opened his door, Francis didn't bid him goodnight and turn away, but made his way inside instead, as if it was _his_ shop and not the Englishman's.

Arthur, still at the door, crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at such a despotic action. "I would very much like to know what you think you are doing in my shop at this hour."

The Frenchman shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "I promised I would compensate for the lost customers," he explained, causing Arthur shift warily. "So I thought I would get something from here."

The Englishman relaxed again and waved his hand nonchalantly. "Oh. Never mind."

"But I _insist_. There is something I'd very much like to get."

"Whatever then," Arthur shrugged, switching the light on in the shop, and approached the Frenchman. "What is it?"

Francis looked around, as if searching for something, and then back at Arthur. "I don't seem to find it anywhere though," he said so helplessly that even the Englishman must have understood at that point that the Frenchman was acting. "Maybe you could help me?"

Cautiousness was back in those brilliant eyes again as Arthur frowned, suspecting – very correctly – something devious behind it. "What?"

"You see," Francis began almost apologetically, "I was hoping to find your phone number, but can't see it anywhere."

Arthur stared at him blankly for a good moment before speaking. "Francis. That was so fucking _lame._"

Francis gave him a hurt look. "Would you have come up with something better, _monsieur_ Clevermind?"

Arthur shook his head and covered his face with his hand. And laughed. Laughed so that his whole body was shaking. Francis watched the show for a while, mortified to be treated with such amusement, until decided it was enough. "Well?"

Arthur wiped the corners of his eyes, starting to calm down, and gave the Frenchman a mischievous grin. "Too bad, but it's not for sale."

"Is that so."

"Very much so."

"In that case, I have no other choice but stay here until you decide to make me a special offer."

"What a persistent customer you are." Arthur gave an exasperated sigh and extended his hand in front of Francis. "In that case, I'd better give it to you. I wouldn't want you here hanging around for the whole night, now would I?" He cracked a grin.

"Oh, you _would_." And Francis wrapped himself up in victory as the Englishman's cheeks coloured with bright red, perplexed by the suggestion in the Frenchman's leer.

"Will you give me your bloody phone or not?" he nearly spat and made to withdraw his hand, but Francis was quick to hand him his mobile phone before he could do so. The Englishman dialled up his number and shoved the phone back to it's owner. "Don't think you are getting it that easily," he warned, looking at the Frenchman from under his messy hair. "Give me yours then. Just so that I know when I can ignore a call without missing anything important."

"How rude."

"Nothing more that you deserve."

"You wound me so."

"Unfortunately not enough to get rid of you, it seems!"

"Oh, you make my heart bleed~"

"Why wouldn't you bleed to death!"

"Because," Francis retorted smugly, waving his phone. "I have to make some use of my newest acquiring."

To that, Arthur didn't say much; he just muttered angrily about frogs and their wicked ways and Francis laughed, and with that, they parted.

It was quite late already as Francis walked away from _The English Shop_. As soon as he was far enough, he selected the number he had just got and pushed the small green button.

After five beeps the call was answered – in a rather annoyed tone. "_What_?"

"Mm, just to let you know which number to avoid," Francis mused. "Good night. Arthur."

There was a snort at the other end of the line, followed by a short silence. "Good night... frog."

Smiling to himself, the Frenchman ended the call and after small consideration, picked another number. And so a certain Spaniard got a phone call that he had long been hoping and waiting to receive.

"_Hola_, Antonio..."

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**On Rainy Days**

A blond man, bright and cheery blue eyes behind eye-glasses, tall body structure. American. Far too noisy. Far too clingy. And far, _far_ too enthusiastic around a certain English shopkeeper.

Francis' hawk-eyes scanned quickly and precisely.

A couple of days had passed since Arthur's and Francis' date (as Francis called it in his mind) in the Frenchman's café and thus since they had last talked. (It was Francis' policy; give your heartthrob a bit room after the first proper date to let them have enough time to process their feelings – or in other words, give them enough time to realise they simply loved the Frenchman.) But apparently as soon as Francis let his eyes turn away from Arthur, the Englishman had attracted another wooer. Or so it seemed. At least if the way this new man clung to the shopkeeper was anything to judge by. This blue-eyed blond had his arms tight around Arthur, and his face was buried in the Englishman's neck. Arthur's hands moved up and down the back of his companion, and there was a gentle, though awkward expression on his face, as if he wasn't quite sure how to behave.

Displeased. That's what Francis was.

He left the shop window and, just for the sake of it, decided to ruin the fluffy moment the two men were sharing in the shop. The bell rang mockingly as he pulled the door open and walked in, adopting a large, false smile on his lips.

Arthur's eyes quickly spun to the door while the man clinging on him didn't even notice anything. He didn't change his position or let go of the Englishman, he didn't even do as little as acknowledge that someone had walked in on them. He merely kept his face silently buried in Arthur's neck. The Englishman, meanwhile, recognised the comer and his appearance obtained even higher degree of uneasiness. "Francis," he uttered, making a hesitant attempt to raise his hand but ending up only half-nodding to the Frenchman, "I, er... Hi."

"Well good afternoon," the Frenchman cooed, approaching the cashier where Arthur was being held by the still not speaking man, who, though, had protested with a whine when the Englishman had tried moving his arms away. "Oh, what does my little eye see here~?" Really, Francis should get an award; no one could have told that he was merely pulling an act. "Who's this fellow here?"

Arthur glanced awkwardly at Francis. "Er, this is Alfred. A friend of mine." Francis raised his eyebrow and gave small sneer. "Well, it's a... pleasure to meet him."

That seemed to be as much awkwardness as the Englishman could handle. He grabbed this Alfred's shoulders and shoved him to stand straight. "Fuck it, Alfred!" he exclaimed, exasperated, ignoring the man's whining. "Take a fucking hold of yourself and quit making a clamour in front of all people!"

The man introduced as Alfred sniffed and shot a glare at the Englishman. "You're being as cold as ever, Iggy!"

_Iggy?_ Francis resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"How many times have I told you not to call me that!"

"Heck, stop being so uptight, you're like an old man."

Francis frowned just a bit; he would shave his stubble if this man was not American.

"Then quit yourself being such a brat, you sodding Yankee!"

Francis followed the conversation mildly amused. The two wranglers certainly didn't behave like a couple, so there was a chance the Frenchman wouldn't have to eliminate any rivals in the end. Not to say that the whiny American didn't annoy him nonetheless.

As the two blonds showed no signs of ending their bickering and Francis hated being ignored like that, he made a small cough to remind the others of his presence. Arthur stirred and immediately looked guilty like he had forgotten the Frenchman being there, and Alfred finally realised there was someone watching. "Oh hey, who're you?"

Francis made a slightly exaggerated bow. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy, nice to meet you," he said and grabbed the American's extended hand. Alfred shook it with way too much force than exquisite manners suggested. "My name's Alfred Jones," he said cheerily – a change of mood from whiny to gleeful drastic.

"So I have heard," Francis agreed and stole a glance at the Englishman; Arthur was wringing his hands nervously and Francis wondered why.

"You have?" Alfred uttered happily. "Has Arthur been talking about me?" Then he frowned a bit in puzzlement. "Speaking of which... Do you know Arthur? He's never mentioned you."

One of Francis' eyebrows rose delicately on hearing that and his previous suspicions returned, but before he could open his mouth for words, Arthur himself decided to join the conversation. "He's just one of my customers!" he snapped quickly not meeting either man's eyes, and something in Francis' chest stung nastily.

Alfred's frown deepened a bit in suspicion. "_Really_?"

"Yeah, really, and now if both of you _please_, I have _work_ to do."

That was when Francis found he preferred causing troubles to simply taking the hint and leaving. So he was _just_ a customer? Well, customer is always right. And he certainly was not leaving before that American idiot. So, Francis took a few steps and leaned against the desk behind which Arthur had escaped. "Work, you say?" he mused. "What kind of work?"

Arthur looked at him murderously and opened his mouth, but Alfred was quick to intrude. "You can work while we speak!" he protested. (Francis rolled his eyes; he was ignoring the given hint that basically told to fuck off, but the American had completely _missed_ it.) "And I don't believe you! You clearly know him better than an ordinary customer!"

Red flames of anger and embarrassment rose on Arthur cheeks and he quickly glanced at Francis, turning his eyes at the American then. "Will you shut up," he growled, and shot a glare at the Frenchman, too. "_Both_ of you."

"No!" Alfred yelled, pointing his finger at the Englishman. "Admit it! You know Francis better than a mere customer!" He turned to Francis then and rather enthusiastically repeated his demand. "You know each other well, don't you?"

Francis adopted a casual look. "Let me think..." he said thoughtfully, and then looked at Arthur. "Do we?"

"I wish I knew neither of you," the Englishman groaned, rubbing his temples. Alfred immediately caught his words. "So you _do_ admit that you know him?"

"Bloody hell, yes, I fucking know him!" Arthur yelled, losing his composure entirely. "Are you fucking happy now?"

To Francis' amazement, the American burst into laughter. "I _knew_ it!" he laughed loudly, and once again the Frenchman started to feel that there was no romance between the two English-speakers – at least not from American's side. "I've got to tell Ivan! And Elizaveta! _Ooh_, she'll like it!"

"Shut up you freaking bastard, there's _nothing_ to tell to _anyone_!"

Francis, being left out of the quarrel now, didn't know whether to laugh or clutch his head in constant yelling. He understood nothing anymore; it seemed that Arthur and Alfred were having an argument over an insider matter that Francis didn't get, and it frustrated as much as amused him. Obviously there was something Arthur wanted to keep hidden from some people and the Frenchman had a feeling that he belonged to that group, but at the same time it was almost fun to watch as Alfred pressurised the Englishman.

Currently the American was laughing noisily. "You bet there is," he teased. "Ooh, Arthur is in _loooooove_~"

That, quite naturally, caught Francis' full attention. He focused his eyes on a certain scarlet-faced Englishman, who resembled alarmingly an explosive bomb. "Alfred," he growled dangerously. "_Shut. It_."

"You wish!" Alfred laughed and leapt behind a shelf as Arthur lunged at him with full intention to strangle the poor man to silence. "Arthur, the stone-hearted As-if-I'd-ever-do-that Arthur has finally fallen for a Frenchman!"

Now this was curious, Francis thought from his place at the cashier.

"I haven't!" Arthur shouted, attempting to catch the American and _make_ him be silent. "Get the fuck out of of my shop at_ once_, you sodding brat!"

This time Alfred obeyed – though probably only to save his ass as the furious Englishman tried to attack him – but he didn't do so silently. "I'll tell Elizaveta!" he teased, "Expect her visiting you tonight!"

"You'll tell nothing to her, you hear me?" Arthur stormed to the door after the American. "There's _nothing_ to tell, I've never fallen in love with _any_ slimy frogs and I never will!"

All Francis could hear Alfred responding was his noisy laughter, and for a while the furious shopkeeper just stood at the door of his shop, panting like after performing heavy exercise. Francis, instead, remained at his place at the cashier and observed the back of the Englishman. Silence, save for the breathing of the other, felt almost as loud as the recent yelling and shouting, and the Frenchman played over Arthur's last words in his mind. He might have meant what he had said... or then the words were false. Maybe Arthur had yelled so hard because he was shy to admit that what Alfred had said was true – or maybe he had wanted convince the American that it was _not_ true, and the one he held affectionate feelings for was not French at all.

While Francis was occupied with these thoughts, Arthur apparently pulled himself together again. Remaining with his back to the Frenchman, he leant against the door frame and cleared his throat. "So, er... That was Alfred."

"That's as much as I caught," Francis responded dryly. Arthur glanced at him quickly over his shoulder and seeing that Francis was looking at him, tried to mask the glance by looking around the whole shop. "Umh," he said, starting to wring his hands again, as if needing something to occupy them with.

Now that Arthur's breathing had calmed down, the silence fell upon the two even heavier that before. Arthur coughed awkwardly and moved behind one of the shelves, starting to re-arrange items there – purposefully unseen by the sapphire eyes. "Such a, a bedlam he always creates."

"Aha. Well, I'm sorry for interrupting whatever you two were doing before I got in."

"No, it's just, the idiot had watched too much horror films again, knowing he can't stand them, and-"

"And he ran to you for comfort," Francis finished, starting to feel that unpleasant pang of jealousy again. "You two must be really close."

"Kind of... We've known one another since childhood."

_That's how it always goes,_ Francis thought bitterly. _It always starts as childhood friends. _"I see."

Arthur didn't respond for a while, and the Frenchman felt that it might be the right time to leave; it seemed that the Englishman wanted to be left alone. "Well then," he said, making it towards the door. "See you around."

"Francis!"

Francis looked back. Arthur was standing near the protective shelf and looked as uneasy as one just could look. "Francis, the two of us..." he began, and Francis raised his eyebrow questionably. Arthur tried again. "The two of us, I, we... It's just friends. Nothing more."

So that was how Arthur wanted it. Francis felt cold, heavy lump forming in his stomach. "I see," he managed to say without showing how he felt, "As you wish. So, see you." With that he turned around and exited the shop. Well, if Arthur wanted to be nothing more but friends, Francis wouldn't oblige – it wouldn't help anything. It wouldn't change anything. Feelings could not be forced onto others.

But what the Frenchman did not know was that he had left Arthur with a heart as heavy as his own – heavy and filled with puzzlement.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

**On Rainy Days**

The following night was just as unpleasant for Francis as it only could be for one whose hopes had just been crumbled. Besides, it was rather a new feeling for the Frenchman; usually it wasn't him who had got his hopes too high, and those few times it really had been him, his pride had been more hurt than his heart.

Antonio had received another phone call, and the Spaniard had regretted that Francis' potential affair – _love,_ as Francis had sadly uttered – had miserably ended in record time. But at least comfort offered by his friend made the Frenchman feel a bit better, even if it didn't cure his aching heart.

However, regardless of how long and unpleasant the night was, eventually it came to the end, giving way to September morning light. It was a pretty Saturday morning, and the café Francis was the head chef at would open at nine o'clock; the Frenchman had better get ready soon and be on his way to his workplace, no matter whether he felt like it or not.

The morning was pretty chilly even though it wasn't even mid-September, but Francis didn't mind; he wasn't cold in his dark jacket and fresh air (as fresh as the air could be in a grand city such Paris) was only good for him. _The air cools down along with my heart_, he though, well acknowledging how dramatic the thought sounded and liking it.

The walk from the Frenchman's flat to the café took about twenty minutes, and halfway was located the Englishman's boutique. It was closed, of course – Arthur would hardly open his shop at eight in the morning on Saturday – but as Francis passed it, he had nonetheless almost expected to see the the shopkeeper behind his desk, reading a book with a distant look in his eyes or whittling new toy soldiers to his collection with a concentrated face. Raising his eyes on Francis with the beautiful smile of his on hearing the Frenchman entering. The familiar sight would have been soothing – almost like nothing of the previous day had ever happened, like everything was like it had been until that moment.

Francis shook his head and continued his way to the café. Well, everything _would_ go on like it used to; Arthur had said he wanted to be friends, and Francis had no intentions to avoid the Englishman, despite his feelings. The only thing was that he would have to flirt less – other than that, everything would go according to the familiar routine.

Only that the routine was broken as soon as Francis reached his workplace. Because it wasn't included in the routine that Arthur would be standing in front of the front door of the café, hands in the pockets of his beige jacket, shifting from one leg to another and glancing inside, as if waiting for the lights to switch on any minute possible. The Frenchman frowned a bit – he wasn't sure how to approach the Englishman after the previous day, and it didn't seem like the shopkeeper had noticed him yet.

"Silly Englishman," he muttered as he walked closer to the waiting figure. "On seeing that the café is about to open only in an hour, one would expect him to leave and come back to the opening time..."

Francis hadn't really bothered with hushing his voice, and apparently the said silly Englishman had ears of a rabbit, for he spun around and spotted the approaching Frenchman. He seemed to start a little, but quickly regained his composure and adopted a scowl on his face, folding his arms across his chest. Deciding to go on like nothing had happened, Francis raised his eyebrow at such appearance. "_Bonjour_, Arthur," he said airily. "What a surprise seeing you outside your little kingdom and at the gates of my palace. What about your shop?"

Arthur snorted, keeping up the stern face, but momentarily Francis saw some hesitance in those green orbs. Hesitance, however, was immediately replaced with haughtiness. "I'm the owner, I can do whatever the hell I want with it," the proud shopkeeper uttered, and Francis smirked, despite himself. "That one you got from me," he laughed and ignored the grunt he got in response. "Very well. Since you seem to be so eager to come inside, however, follow-"

But he never got to finish his sentence – he was cut off by Arthur's hurried words, all but spat out. "When I said 'the two of us', I meant myself and Alfred."

Francis blinked, taken aback by sudden outburst, and stared at Arthur. The Englishman stood right before him with his arms protectively across his chest, cheeks flaming scarlet and eyes alternately observing their surroundings and, cautiously, the Frenchman.

"_Quoi_?" was all Francis could say while processing the words in his mind.

Arthur, instead, started to look almost furious. "Are you _deaf_?" he asked (rhetorically, Francis assumed) and slowly repeated as if speaking to a child. "When I said yesterday that we were just friends, I meant _myself and Alfred_, you bloody _retard._"

"Oh," Francis said, the message finally sinking in. "_Oh_?" he repeated, immediately changing his tack. "Hmm, and what of it~?" Because happy or not, Francis was always Francis.

Arthur stared at the Frenchman, flustered, as if trying to deicide whether he was playing with him or not. Rather correctly coming to the conclusion that Francis indeed was teasing, the Englishman frowned. "You always refuse to take the hint, do you," he muttered and, just as Francis was coming up with a most brilliant retort, grabbed the collar of his jacked and pulled him close, pressing his lips against the Frenchman's. It was a very brief kiss, if kiss at all; more like it was merely lips pressing against lips, quick and chaste – but the errand of it was more than clear.

Francis smirked at Arthur when he withdrew; he was flushed and embarrassed and yet at the same time so determined that the Frenchman couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Needless to say, that didn't improve Arthur's mood. "You- Stop that!"

Francis wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, shaking his head. "Oh, Arthur," he managed to say, "This hint I'm more than glad to take."

That evening Antonio received the third and the happiest phone call concerning the matter 'Arthur'.

(xXx

Arthur's flat was not at all stale and dusty like Francis had expected on first hearing about it. It was small, yes, almost tiny, but even so clean and well kept. Arthur had only one room aside kitchen, bathroom and the shop premises, and somehow Francis was fascinated by the fact that whole his property lied within those walls. Arthur had a bed, desk, a couple of chairs and two quite big shelves, made of oak – fine work, Francis had marked. And everywhere around could be seen different tools for whittling, drawing and so on – visibly it was a craftsman's home.

As Arthur busied himself with tea in the kitchen, Francis carefully sat on the bed and continued observing the cosy room – it was always interesting to see other people's homes, as home told a loud story about their owners.

"I just can't understand," Francis continued their conversation while taking in the contents of the room, "why you were so flustered about Alfred getting to know about our, hm, relationship."

The Frenchman heard a snort coming from the kitchen. "You don't obviously know Alfred." Teacups clung together. "You tell him something, and be sure he will announce the whole world all about it. Besides..."

Something on the bedside table caught Francis' attention. He gave Arthur an absent hum encouraging him to continue while taking a small wooden object in his hands.

"Well..." Arthur's voice was a bit quieter now, and Francis heard water being poured into cups. "One never knows about Frenchmen."

But Francis didn't reply. He stared at the wooden thing in his hands, observing it closely and uttering a quiet, amazed laughter. The paint work was indeed impressing.

It was a toy soldier. A toy soldier with blond locks and blue eyes, and it had a light stubble on its chin. The uniform was French. On the bottom of the figure was carved the date of its completion; the date that located a month back in mid-August, and the Frenchman was pretty sure he remembered the cause Arthur and himself had bickered about that time.

Not only the soldier in the Frenchman's hands was French, but Francis also was quite sure he was holding a soldier made after himself.

"Fran-?" Francis raised his eyes to see Arthur with two teacups halting in the doorway to the room. Lifting one of his eyebrows significantly, the Frenchman pointed at the soldier in his hands.

Really, watching the red colour creeping up the Englishman's neck and spreading on his face was indeed most amusing. And now Francis could enjoy the sight to his heart's content.

xXx)

X


End file.
